


and I draw a line (to your heart today)

by missymeggins



Category: Castle (TV 2009)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-28
Updated: 2010-10-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:28:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23080189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missymeggins/pseuds/missymeggins
Summary: and I draw a line (to your heart today). Castle/Beckett, Castle. g. 1,342 words. Episode tag for '3XK'
Relationships: Kate Beckett/Richard Castle
Kudos: 7





	and I draw a line (to your heart today)

They sit by the pool for another half an hour and in all that time he never lets go of her hand.

(He can't.)

*

(Her hand in his is the only thing he can feel. He sees her shivering, knows it must be cold, but it doesn't reach him. Her hand is warm though – probably because he's been gripping it so tightly – and it keeps him present.

In his mind he clings to her with all he has, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his head on her shoulder, breathing her in like she alone can make him safe again.

But in reality there's just her hand in his as they sit silently side by side. Still, her hand is more than she's ever given him, and so it's enough.)

*

Eventually she turns to him, at the same time gently running her thumb against his skin, and says softly, “Come on, let's get you home.”

*

He doesn't speak as she drives him back to his apartment and in the silence she hears her own words playing over in her ears - “I'm so glad you're okay.”

There's no blood, no bruises, no need for bandages. But he's not okay and she's never seen him hurt this much. She swallows, trying desperately to lessen the lump in her throat but it doesn't seem to help. So she talks instead.

“It's not your fault.” (She's heard these words spoken to her so many times and though she believes them, it's not his fault, she knows how hollow they'll sound to his ears.)

“Don't Beckett. Just don't.”

His voice is thin, weary, and so full of regret, she feels the anger building up inside her – not at him; at the bastard who escaped them, causing all of this chaos – because he was never supposed understand this side of cop life, never supposed to feel the guilt and helplessness that they do when things go wrong, and she hates that she couldn't protect him from it.

But there's something else, something more spinning inside his head and she's not sure how she knows except that she does, can feel it in the way he won't look at her but stares out the window instead, while his hand grips his thigh tightly, showing her all the tension in his body.

“He said something to you didn't he? To try and get inside your head.”

“It doesn't matter,” he mumbles, barely audible, and he still won't look at her.

“What did he say to you?” she asks gently, needing to hear it, needing to understand what he's going through because she hates seeing him like this and she just wants to know how to fix it.

“Nothing.”

She pauses, worried that if she pushes him he'll retreat even further into silence. She's never had to draw anything out of him before, he's usually so forthcoming. But as often as she thought she wanted his silence in the past, she now realises that Richard Castle isn't himself if he's not chattering incessantly in her ear.

But it's not just a selfish desire to return to the status quo. She wants to ease his pain, because she knows it so well, and seeing it reflected in his eyes makes her throat tighten and her stomach feel hollow. He doesn't deserve this.

“It wasn't true,” she tells him, pushing on in spite of his silence simply because talking him through this is the only thing she knows to do.

“What?” he says.

“Whatever he said you to,” she tells him firmly.

“You don't know that.”

“I know you Castle. I know that whatever he said is eating away at you, making you doubt who you are. But I know you, and whatever he said, whatever he thinks he knows about you – it's the ramblings of a sociopath and it's meaningless.”

“But -”

“No,” she cuts him off swiftly. “There are no 'but''s here. You're Richard Castle, you're a good father, a good friend. That's what counts. Okay?”

“Okay,” he concedes and she thinks – hopes – she can hear the slightest tinge of acceptance, or maybe relief, in his voice.

They continue the drive in silence.

*

(The whole time she's driving she keeps both hands on the wheel, like a good driver, a good cop.

But they're cold and they tingle. She wants to put her hand back on his knee, feel the warmth of him radiate through her, feel the solidness of him under her fingertips. She wants it – selfishly – for herself, because she needs reassurance that he's still here, still hers, still whole.

And she wants to do it for him, because she had felt him shaking, just slightly, when she sat down on the bench next to him, and she had felt that shaking subside as they held hands and stared at the light flickering over the water.

If nothing else, this night has made one thing impossible to deny any longer. They need each other.

She keeps her hands on the wheel though. She's not sure if either of them are ready to stretch their boundaries any further. They don't do things by leaps and bounds; change is a slow burn for them, and that's okay.)

*

She walks him to his door.

“Thank you. For coming to get me,” he tells her sincerely.

“What are partners for,” she answers simply. (And the truth is that simple. He's her partner and she'll always try and protect him.)

“Saving my butt apparently.”

She smiles, glad to see some of his good humour returning, and he smiles briefly in return, though his eyes are still dark, guarded. She understands though, these things hit you hard and they don't fade easily. As a cop you simply learn to bear the brunt and find ways to move through it. But he's not a cop, and she knows this guilt – though completely unfounded – will stay with him far longer than it should.

She grips his hand quickly as he turns away and gives it a brief squeeze.

“Take a few days off Castle. I'll see you when you get back.”

“See you in a few days,” he replies.

*

Finally behind closed doors, in the safety of her own space, she allows herself to feel the chaotic mess of fear and relief she's been trying to hold at bay for the past hour.

She drops her coat on the floor and sits on her couch, letting the whole weight of her body sink into it, too tired to go any further, and she puts her head in her hands letting the shakes she's been holding in since the motel, run free through her limbs.

The night replays itself in her head and she lets it, needing the catharsis of acknowledging exactly what happened.

She heard the words leave her mouth - “I'm so glad you're okay” - as she rushed to untie his hands but in her head the mantra was still the panic fuelled haze that had begun when Martha called, a stream of consciousness that simply sounded like: “Ohgodohgodohgodohgod.”

There was a moment, that flashed before her eyes, in which she imagined her life without him in it and it scared her so much that she did the only thing she knew to do, turned it inside out and used that fear to propel her, spur her forward and force her legs to run faster than she's ever felt them move. (Tomorrow her muscles will ache.)

Slowly, she feels the shaking subside, and calm return to her body.

He's still here, she hasn't lost him.

She curls her legs up on the couch, lays her head down, and holds onto that one thought.

He's still here.

*

He goes straight to bed but he doesn't sleep.

His hands feel empty.

*


End file.
